The Patient
by FleetFan
Summary: Sherlock awakes with a case of amnesia and a changed personality - possibly caused by drugs, possibly by something more nefarious - and now must face Moriarty with no memory at all of who he used to be.
1. Fugue

**A/N: **This is a prologue, so the story will pick up in future chapters. I'm hoping to write a longer fanfiction for a change. Reviews would be much appreciated, and lastly, thanks for reading :)

* * *

**Fugue**

This Sherlock was not someone to be trifled with. The hospital visitors who had come and gone (an old woman, a middle-aged man, a posh bureaucrat) had made this shockingly clear.

"Look what Sherlock's done now," they'd say to each other, always punctuating this with an eye roll or a disapproving frown. "Stalling the case, making John upset - terrible."

Sometimes the patient would try to add his two uninformed cents to this. "You're right, you shouldn't have to put up with him; he's professionally and privately hurting you."

Such comments were only ever met with more sardonic eye rolls, however. For whatever reason, these people didn't regard him as qualified to make these claims, as reasonable as they seemed to him. Despite their near-constant bedside presence, the man's visitors insisted on alienating him.

Why?

Sometimes the gauzy veil lifted and everything seemed clear - for the first time in his life, he felt. He didn't know these people and never had. Yet they spoke to him so directly, never sparing his feelings to make an honest point.

What _had_ the patient done to deserve this?

Then his idleness suddenly fled and the man felt a corresponding urge to run. This was someone else's life, someone else's interpersonal failure; _he_ did not deserve this. Whoever did seemed gone for good.

Unfortunately, the coming-and-going nature of his memories proved a challenge to the patient's plans. He could almost never manage to remember when the nurse's shifts began and ended, when the halls were the emptiest, or even what he wanted out of this desertion.

Then he came to his senses standing in the midst of the 9 o'clock rush.

The patient first looked around, but he couldn't seem to pull any sub-surface details out of his surroundings. Predominantly women, blue-clad, big cabinets on wheels...weren't they called crash carts?

Most head-scratch worthy of all was the fact that so many of them were twins. As though in some kind of parody, pairs of look-alikes would strut down the hall past the patient, mirroring each other's movements blink for blink.

"Sir, do you intend to check yourself out?" The man noticed that while contemplating this extraordinary performance, he had wandered up to the hospital's front desk. He began to sway - the bobbing of his head making the clerk assume he'd nodded - but as soon as she'd handed him the paperwork…

He collapsed.


	2. Bound to Be Wrong

**Bound to Be Wrong**

"Are you sure he's faking?"

"Yes," the other voice replied in a much less hushed tone. "The breaths aren't shallow and long enough." A soft touch at the wrist. "And...well...his pulse is too fast." The man adjusted his breathing accordingly, hoping neither of them would notice. He was barely beginning to smile as he marked this ruse as a success when a flashlight beam to the face promptly aborted it.

The patient opened his eyes to find two coated men staring down at him in annoyance. One, however, was white-coated, while the other wore a black mackintosh. "Hello, doctor," the patient said, addressing the whitey. Whitey clicked off his flashlight pen and traded it in for a clipboard sitting on the table.

"We have some questions to ask you regarding your mental status," he said. "Do you know why you are here?"

The patient shook his head, provoking a startled frown from the Mac-wearer. "Do you - " the doctor began, but his companion replaced his question with another: "_Really,_ Sherlock?" An awkward pause ensued.

"You're talking to the doctor, yes?" the man asked. The visitors always threw that name around, yet it still bore no familiarity; though he could not remember his name, it was surely not that.

Both of them ignored this question, the doctor resting a hand on the Mac-wearer's shoulder. "I know it can be difficult when a friend suffers retrograde amnesia. But surely you, of all people, will understand the importance of determining the cause. Please wait to talk."

"Of course, of course!" the man assured him in a Cockney accent.

And so the interview went on. The doctor asked about symptoms such as double vision, loss of balance, and fatigue, which, worryingly, described the patient to a T. When he had finally reached the end of the sheaf, he set the clipboard aside and began to examine the man's face, noting the swelling and dilated pupils.

After he had finished he gave off a business-like sigh. "It's nothing the blood test didn't already show, but you appear to have overdosed on valium," he said. "Your friend, John, found you in a comatose state, still living in a crackhouse. While it's rare to experience such extensive memory loss, it's not unheard of."

_What?_ The man felt the pit of his stomach clench. "I'm...a junkie?"

The two men shared a look of mutual understanding. "We'd best not get into that now," the doctor replied. "As Lestrade here tells me, your drug use has been partly motivated by the need to investigate crimes. You were - are - a detective."

A detective...now _that _made intuitive sense. "I'm a detective," the man recapped. "British. Willing to go to extraordinary, almost inhumane, lengths. Do I have a family?"

* * *

"...and lastly, you should know that I'm your brother Mycroft."

"Sherrlock," the man slowly annunciated. The stiff-lipped bureaucrat from before confirmed the name with a - was that condescending? - smile.

"It's understandable that your head should be a bit...fuzzy," he said. "But it's really quite simple: Scotland Yard consults you for their most impenetrable cases, my job is to keep you, dear brother, in check."

On a brain rather than gut level, this was not challenging to grasp. "Sherlock" was merely searching for that click, that feeling of puzzle pieces coming together. That feeling that the world, if only for a brief instant, made _sense_. But there had been no such click. This "Sherlock" didn't sound the least bit like him, even down to the esoteric Victorian-sounding name.

"Are you sure you've got the right man?" the patient pressed. "Does your brother have a twi-"

"No," Mycroft interrupted unsmilingly.

Sherlock knew it was irrational to doubt his own brother's vouch, but perhaps this flaw could come naturally even to a detective. "This does not sound like a case of amnesia," he simply observed.

* * *

Sherlock's alleged friend "John" dropped in later that day, seemingly to test the waters - see what remained of their camaraderie.

Of course, before he'd even passed the threshold Sherlock had started to dissect him with his eyes. This was the deeply-ingrained habit that had prepared him for the revelation that he was a detective. Still, his brain was using an algorithm he only half understood. His subconscious seemed to shout all the important details at him, his conscious mind then fitting them together into a seamless story.

All of Sherlock's deductions occurred in the span of about three seconds. In the next span of two minutes, not a word was uttered between them, John sitting in his chair and giving Sherlock not so much a once-over as a twice-over.

Finally Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. And besides, he felt almost like the doctor wanted him to prove himself. "I know a bit about you already," he said. "You're an army doctor who's been invalided home from Afghanistan. You have a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he left his wife."

John smiled lukewarmly. "How'd you know?" he asked. His reaction was so muted that Sherlock suspected he was humoring him, but he explained the deductions anyway.

"Brilliant," John said quietly. He paused awkwardly. "The past week's been tough," he confessed at last. "Almost tougher than...well, nevermind that now." Another mechanical smile, but his lips curled back downwards the second he stopped putting effort into it.

The other man shook his head at John chastisingly, and simply said, "I barely know you but I do know you're lying." To which John's response was a defeated shrug, but this time, no smile.

They sat in this suffocating silence for another thirty seconds before Sherlock's compassion got the better of him. He got the feeling his former self had been rather more talkative, and that this was a hard adjustment for the doctor. "What can I do to make you more comfortable?" he asked.

Rather than at least a front of gratitude, John's face displayed only shock. "W-well, first of all! You barely sound like yourself anymore." A frown that, judging by his wrinkles, seemed the doctor's default expression. "And this is coming naturally to you?!"

The other man shrugged. "As naturally as...anything I've done, I suppose. Maybe I have changed, but I'm already landed with a reputation - there'd be no point in deception."

"We have to find out how else you've changed," John declared. "We know your deductive skills are still intact, but...bloody hell, you could be a completely different person." He raised his eyebrows and nodded. "It wouldn't be surprise me." Sherlock smiled his old tight-lipped smile, proving that even default expressions could appear unnatural. Other than growing haggard, he had not physically changed since the overdose.

* * *

"Oh dear, tearing up again, aren't I?" The self-proclaimed landlady had captured Sherlock's hand in her own and continued to caress it creepily with her thumb. "It's like losing you a second time: your old boyfriend John is devastated, Mary's devastated...even Mrs. Turner. Poor, poor Sherlock…." _Stroke._

Sherlock realized he had already mentally checked John off as heterosexual based on his clothes, grooming, and subconscious eye saccades, but now unchecked this box without hesitation. With so little data to work from, some of his deductions were bound to be wrong.


	3. Clearly Fine

**Clearly Fine**

The Yard was practically in shambles without Sherlock's consulting service. After half a week of Lestrade constantly asking for updates on Sherlock's health, his and the doctor's argument had transitioned from the passive-aggressive stage to full-blown active aggression.

"Doctor, you've thoroughly tested him for any mental defects." Lestrade paused. "The - the psychopathy was already there, but that's beside the point - he's clearly fine. Fine enough to solve cases, I mean."

"He doesn't score as a psychopath," the doctor pointed out. "But anyway, Sherlock's still in the process of recovery. He continues to have flashes of disorientation, not to mention the weird amnesia. He may have kept his book smarts but his people smarts will take time."

"He never had people smarts," Lestrade said - a lie he only told himself because he couldn't afford to hate Sherlock.

Dr. Leblanc smiled. "I can't make him stay, but I _strongly believe _he shouldn't go."

Lestrade crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes as though all too familiar with the doctor's ways. "C'mon, fess up; is this medical or simply _personal _advice?"

This time Leblanc did not smile. "100% medical," he sniffed. "Especially if you plan to bring him out to any crime scenes. He just doesn't have the discretion for you to let him roam free…. I'm quite sorry."

_He's not, _Lestrade thought, _but this is how an underpaid lackey like him gets to feel powerful. _"You know what?" he said. "I'd like another doctor put on this case."

* * *

So, alright, Sherlock wasn't entirely the same. According to John, he'd undergone a diagnostically unexplained personality change. The literature revealed that both phobics and sufferers of ADHD had experienced personality changes from taking valium - but, of course, Sherlock was the least phobic and attention-deficient man Greg had ever known.

Now, John, like the concerned mother hen that he was, was spending far too much time trying to figure out the why. It seemed his and Mary's relationship was going to suffer even without Sherlock's deliberate meddling.

Anyway, much more important to Lestrade was the fact that he was now free to use Sherlock's brain. Having told Sherlock he could now "do his thing," he handed him a manila folder with a case file in it. "In case you hadn't figured it out," he added, "this case is pretty much a test. Scotland Yard needs proof that you're capable enough to consult full-time again."

Sherlock removed some of the photographic clippings from the folder. He took only a cursory glance. "I don't mean to be rude, but this man isn't a serial killer. Everything about him says 'conventional' - clothing, hair, and musical taste included. You must know one of the big red flags for psychosis is bizarre behavior."

Lestrade frowned. "Of course I know!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Which I couldn't have known. You'll have to prove your competence to me, Greg."

It seemed incredibly odd that the detective had remembered Lestrade's name when he could remember virtually nothing else, but Lestrade couldn't complain. "Then nothing has changed," he sighed.

Except almost every personality trait the detective had once shown.


	4. The Editor's Expression

**The Editor's Expression**

Nearly all of Scotland Yard had been clambering to visit the crime scene, but in the end only forensics had been allowed that privilege. Today was Sherlock's first day back on the job, and no one wanted to miss a potential history-making screw-up.

The victim had worked on a newspaper's editorial staff but quit shortly before his death. He had died in his apartment from blunt force trauma to the neck - so far, no leads. Lestrade had tried to pass the case off as a test in his conversations with Sherlock, but this was a distortion of the truth and mostly for the sake of getting him interested. Scotland Yard could not even answer whether the death was a suicide.

The crime scene was thick with suspense. Forensics had gathered solemnly in their coveralls to hear the detective's opening statement. "Hello, team," Sherlock said - if not cheerful, than certainly more cordial than they had ever seen him. "I'm afraid you'll have to re-introduce yourselves, but you'll find I'm good with names." His smile simply cemented the alien-like air about him.

The prevailing opinion of Sherlock hadn't improved since the overdose. If anything, it had taken a nosedive after he had carried a case so far into the realm of self-abuse. Perhaps it was this prejudice that encouraged the team members to lie about their past relationships.

"I helped you get hired," Sally told him after the introductions (Lestrade, meanwhile, shook his head silently). "You're not really in debt to me anymore but you should probably keep that in mind."

"Certainly," Sherlock replied. "And you?" he asked, nodding at Anderson. "What kind of terms were we…?"

"The best," Anderson said. "You had great respect for me - and, er, I for you. Hopefully that respect hasn't been lost."

Sherlock shook his head earnestly. "I should hope not...I'd like to be as true to my old self as possible." He paused. "Well, Anderson, your esteemed opinion on the crime scene?"

Anderson opened and closed his mouth several times. It seemed it had never in his wildest dreams occurred to him that Sherlock might one day ask his opinion. He made a sound like something had been caught in his throat, then finally stammered, "N...nothing found in the apartment fits as a murder weapon. We have no leads whatsoever."

"I'll be the judge of that," Sherlock smiled - revealing at last that he hadn't lost his competitive streak. He strode over to the body and began to examine both the clothes and injury. There was no breakage of the skin, only a bruise to show that internal bleeding had occurred.

Under his beard, the man's expression was either one of relief or paralyzing fear.

Sherlock made quick of his assessment. "A suicidal gunshot is usually angled slightly upward; I believe the same principle applies here. It looks instead like the weapon struck dead on. Did you find wood pulp on his neck?"

"Yes," Anderson said impatiently, "but this man is an editorial assistant for a paper. Given that he touched newspapers all day, it isn't a stretch of the imagination that he touched his neck - "

"No, but you see," Sherlock interrupted, pointing at the victim's neck, "the diameter of the wound is about the diameter of...hmm, wait a moment." He walked over to a row of cardboard boxes filled with newspapers and pulled one out. Then he rolled it up tightly and placed it directly over the bruise.

"Murders have happened this way before. Brilliant as I supposedly am, I also cannot think of any reason the victim would have wanted to disguise his suicide. Shame is for the living."

Anderson looked back and forth between the newspaper and the man with the ambivalent expression. "We can confirm the cause of death," he said suddenly. "Facial hair is different from arm hair; if one of the newspapers struck his neck, it's likely that some hairs ended up on it."

"Very good, Anderson!" Sherlock beamed. Then he froze mid-breath. "But there's a faster way to tell..." he murmured. He darted over to the man's work desk and began scanning it as though he had a very precise idea in mind.

"Aha!" He plucked a sticky note off of the desk and held it up for Anderson and the rest of the team to marvel at. It contained the name of a newspaper issue. "There, you see, we've killed two birds with one stone. There's a criminal tremor in the handwriting, which suggests it was forged."

He rushed over to the boxes, which were sorted by date. In under ten seconds he had found the correct issue, which, unsurprisingly, was strangely curled.

Despite their initial coldness, the team slowly began to applaud Sherlock's deduction. It was not that it was unusual for him, but quite the opposite: That he was almost entirely his usual self. Seemingly, all Sherlock's pleasant features had remained since the accident, while those that were unpleasant had disappeared wholesale. It was more than a cause for celebration.

Sherlock, however, was hardly receptive to this applause. "This was bait," he said quietly. He had been gazing down at the newspaper for almost a minute. The front page featured a story about Moriarty's return: _MORIARTY BACK TO CAUSE MORE MISERY,_ it read.

"He knew you'd need my help to solve the case," Sherlock murmured. "Moriarty wants me to know that he and I are still rivals, and it doesn't matter that I've lost my memories."

The victim's expression was now unmistakeable.

* * *

**A/N:** I'd appreciate reviews because they're a big motivator. Thanks for reading!


	5. Nightmare

**Nightmare**

A first day back on the job had never gone so well in the history of man. At least, this was how John would have translated his mood into words - despite where his research had been leading him of late.

John unfurled his arms as he and Sherlock stepped into the living room of 221B. "So, how'd you like it?" The room had entered a kind of stasis during Sherlock's time convalescing; many of his belongings remained exactly where they'd been a week ago. John had partly left them this way in the hope they would jog the man's memory.

Though he was now starting to have second thoughts.

Sherlock wandered over to pick up a small box next to the couch, completely neglecting the vintage violin right next to it. "Nicotine patches?!" he asked. "Are these...yours…or mine?"

"Yours," John said. "But, er, don't get the wrong idea - you weren't spiraling out of control from drug abuse or something ridiculous like that." The detective looked doubtful.

"John, I want you to answer me honestly," he suddenly demanded. "Have you and the others been telling the truth?! I want to know if my old life _was _ridiculous in any way. As it is, it seems like you wouldn't tell me even if that were the case."

John licked his lips warily and moved closer. His voice had taken on a more pleading tone - quieter, softer. He even took the box of patches out of Sherlock's hand.

"Forget about 'staying true' to your old self, Sherlock. It's true that you had your issues before the amnesia, but you're far, far better without them. You've still got the mental sharpness of a hacksaw - "

"You're deflecting!" Sherlock cried, clinging onto the box. In his naivety, he seemed genuinely surprised that the others really had been deceiving him. "Your assurances mean nothing - _I want to know!" _

In many ways Sherlock had not changed. But John did not want the detective to remember anything more than the bare bones of his past life; otherwise, he might revert back to his old self entirely. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Maybe you'll never trust me again, but that's a risk I'm willing to run. You need to let go of your old life. It _shouldn't _mean anything to you."

For the first day of a rekindled friendship, things had not gone quite so well as they had at Scotland Yard.

* * *

A slug was crawling across Sherlock's face. He did not know this because he could see it, for the room was completely black. Rather, he could _feel_ it, feel it more acutely than he had ever felt a sensation in his life.

Sensations were agonizingly few in this place. It was all but a vacuum. Sounds came only from Sherlock's pulse, his breath, or occasionally his movements. And he saw nothing.

Except for…. _Wait a moment._ Sherlock suddenly remembered the hallucinations. As lifelike as this slug felt, now mounting his cheek, it wasn't real…couldn't be.

_It can't be real,_ Sherlock insisted to himself. _It isn't...no...it isn't going to enter my mouth…._

But it was. Oh, horror of all horrors, it was!

It was….

Sherlock jolted awake. The blackness of the bedroom made him shudder at the ghost-like memory. _I still want to know,_ he thought, his argument with John resurfacing all too quickly in his mind._ And I'll find out for myself if I have to..._

* * *

The following day, John walked to the London clinic to fulfill his more mundane role as a locum GP. As he trotted down the path, however, he gave little thought to the fact that he was running late. All he could think of were the medical journals and case studies he had been reading.

Something had been bothering John recently. True. Except this was simply the line he had been telling Mrs. Hudson, Mary, his therapist, all the nurturing figures in his life - so of course it was both true and not true.

Something had indeed been bothering John, but this was an understatement of the worst possible magnitude. After only a little bit of medical research, he'd discovered that the valium overdose _couldn't _have caused Sherlock's amnesia and personality change. It could make people forget new memories, but never in the annals of history had valium ever made them forget their past ones.

Now, being a doctor himself, John was well aware that there were other explanations. Technically true. But he'd be kidding himself to consider any candidate but hysterical amnesia. So, to top off all the ambiguity swimming in his head right now, John was terrified but also a bit relieved.

On the one hand, it meant Sherlock had witnessed enough trauma to cause _hysteria_. On the other, it meant that he would likely recover in days, with the aid of hypnosis if necessary. This came as a relief despite all John had been campaigning for, trying hopelessly to keep Sherlock in the dark so he would stay the same.

The only matter still up in the air was how quickly this case was going to escalate, because it seemed it could well come to blows. Just more fuel for the nightmare fire!

John had dozens, no, more like _hundreds _of questions. How would Sherlock cope when his memory came back? Would he develop PTSD? Would he be his old self again, or keep this personality? As much as John loved New Sherlock's submissive tact, he missed Old Sherlock's uncompromising snark.

John hated himself for it, but he'd already started putting a face to the trauma: Moriarty's. He had no reason to believe that Moriarty had tortured Sherlock, it was just incredibly tempting to believe the worst. The night after discovering the truth - the night of Sherlock's first day back - the doctor barely slept.

It didn't help that Mary, for once, agreed his fears were justified.

* * *

**A/N:** As usual, please review. I'd love to know if you guys like my story, and if so, what you like about it. I'd be happy to accommodate some of your suggestions.


	6. Don't Scare Him

**"Don't Scare Him"**

It would be another five hours from now - 9 bloody a.m. - when Sherlock actually returned to solve the Moriarty case. But another night of fitful sleep had driven him to the kitchen for refuge.

The detective sat in the dim lighting of a single lamp and drank his tea broodingly; in his new life, it had quickly become a source of familiarity and comfort. Steam from the tea clouded his vision.

John had hinted that Sherlock might start feeling memories return, but he seemed weirdly frightened by this notion, often asking him if he "felt alright." Of course, the doctor had made it annoyingly clear that he didn't want Sherlock to change back - but this reaction was spurred by something else. It was poorly-masked concern. What for?

Sherlock had noticed that he could almost never focus his thoughts. At first he had blamed the new and bizarre environment, but there was clearly a deeper, root cause. Vague feelings of despair and fear often haunted the fringes of his waking moments. Even most sleeping moments, as evidenced by Sherlock's nightly refuge-seeking.

A loud _SCRATCH_ nearly made Sherlock spill his tea. Turning, however, he saw through the steam that a branch had scraped the window. _For God's sake..._ Why had he been so jumpy lately? The chaos of Sherlock's thoughts grew at the hatching of this new worry.

Then the window smashed apart and an arm shot through. It was soon succeeded by an intact human body climbing over the ledge.

Sherlock tripped backwards, dropping the tea. Even with all his attention fixed on the broken window, he noticed that he was panting heavily, and his feet were wet. His heart was not so much pounding as sledgehammering.

"WHO'S THERE?!" he shouted. Still eyeing the prone figure at the foot of the window, a man's figure, slim. Was he wearing a _suit? _The sight seemed to defy all reason.

"I HAVE A GUN!" Sherlock yelled, now fumbling for the lightswitch on the wall - never letting the invader leave his visual field. As soon as the lights snapped on he recognized the figure. "JOHN!" he half-gasped, so frantic he could barely breathe. "J - "

John came rushing into the kitchen - but immediately his expression seemed off, albeit unreadable. "Sherlock!" he said firmly. "Sherlock, you look terrible. What's happening?!"

Sherlock gestured incoherently at the man who had now gained his feet, staring menacingly at both of them from afar. "Look!" he finally choked. "He's - Moriarty's come - and he's going to kill us…"

"You're not making any sense." John did not look over his shoulder, as it seemed he had taken a sufficiently long glance already. He grabbed Sherlock's upper arm and guided him forcefully back into his chair. "That's not Moriarty."

He paused. "There's no one else in this room, Sherlock." And indeed, upon checking for Moriarty's presence, Sherlock discovered that he had disappeared. More damningly, the window had repaired itself.

For once he had no means to defend his claim. Sherlock literally _could not_ produce a reason as to how the man had escaped.

This astounded him. "What?"

John shook his upper arm slightly. "You heard me. You're...you're seeing things."

Sherlock now read fear, considerable fear, in John's eyes - but he couldn't accept it. "No..." he avowed. "It happened." Although, unlike he usually would, he did not elaborate.

John swallowed. This was the hotly dreaded moment of his coming clean; he knew it. "Sherlock…" he started. _Oh, come on, don't scare him,_ he thought when he heard the quaver in his voice. John waited a few seconds to reign it in.

"Sherlock, I'm worried that you're starting to re-experience...essentially, trauma. Now it's just hallucinations, but soon it could be flashbacks."

"...Trauma?" Sherlock's ability to speak seemed to be breaking down further.

"Yeah, I'm - I'm afraid so," John replied. "Your overdose can't all explain the symptoms you've had. Instead, everything points to...well, hysterical amnesia. From trauma."

Sherlock laughed awkwardly.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you for reading. One of the commenters, la12la3, helped inspire me to write this chapter, so thanks go to them as well.


	7. Opening Game

**Opening Game**

The rabble had roused themselves after what felt like an eternity; Sherlock watched as forensics milled about the victim's apartment waiting for him to find a lead. The lab had found facial hairs on the newspaper, confirming the cause of death, but the search for fingerprints had turned up negative.

Considering they were chatting in the midst of a crime scene, the team seemed strangely cheery. But Sherlock assumed his personality change was largely to thank for this.

Because, much as they had tried to cover up their natural responses, most of Sherlock's co-workers cringed at his mere appearance. Impressive, indeed, how much more perceptive he had grown during his recovery.

Sherlock was feeling quite stressed now. For some reason he felt he owed this to more than just a sleepless night. While he hadn't singled out any hallucinations since the break-in, a completely lifelike delusion _could_ be hard to single out from completely lifelike reality.

The mouldering body had vanished from the premises, the investigation's focus having switched from the murder method to the murderer himself (or herself, naturally). Sherlock's personal focus, however, had switched to Moriarty's motives. He knew so little beyond the fact of their rivalry.

"The game's back on!" Lestrade grinned, clapping Sherlock on the back. "We need to find out what pie Moriarty's got his fingers in now. He's clearly the puppetmaster, but who's the puppet?"

"Quaint metaphors," Sherlock simply said. Stress had placed new limits on his tolerance. "Any lab results I should be aware of?"

Lestrade and Sally, who had so far kept her distance from Sherlock, swapped a glance. She had brought two files rather than one. "Actually," she slipped in, "there's been a death next-door. The neighbor collapsed yesterday during a chess game."

Sherlock furrowed his brow at the cadence of Sally's voice. She almost seemed to be challenging him. Lestrade, as if prodding Sherlock to ignore Sally in favor of the real case, turned him gently aside.

But Sherlock turned back. He was still very much of a one-track mind. "Go on, it may have a bearing on this case."

Sally smiled with just a hint of self-complacence. She flipped open the file. "No obvious medical COD. The victim was an epileptic, though, so the cause of death seems clear: all the doctors agree it was SUDEP."

"Anything outlier-ish about him or his death?" Sherlock asked, starting to peruse the file.

"Her or her death," Sally corrected. She frowned after a beat. Disapproving. "Did you assume because of the chess game…?"

"This is connected to Moriarty," Sherlock interrupted. He sounded so cocksure that Sally frowned again.

"Sudden unexplained death in epilepsy - that's SUDEP - is very common, you know," she said. "This is the second unsupported assumption you've made."

"Neither were unsupported," Sherlock retorted, but he said no more on this point. "Think about it. What are the chances that these neighbors would die within such a short window? The balance of probability suggests Moriarty did this."

"Fine, then," Sally said with a roll of her eyes (Sherlock was definitely starting to get an antagonistic vibe from her and made a mental note to question their friendship). "What cause of death d'you propose? You honestly think this was a murder - in the middle of a chess game?"

"Really, Sherlock?"

But Sally's sarcasm sailed in through one ear and out the other. Sherlock's thoughts were already off exploring more exciting turf.

"A slow-acting poison could have done it…" he said suddenly. "We need to look into all the contacts she made in the last few hours before death. It's possible someone gave her an unstable poison that broke down into compounds the lab would normally expect to find."

"Her name was Bridget," Sally sniped. "You've done a brilliant job of respecting her so far."

"And you've done a brilliant job of respecting a good mate," Sherlock replied. "I'm beginning to doubt your testimony, Sally."

She smiled ironically. "Ah, well...it was worth a try, my friend. Or perhaps I should say arch-rival."

* * *

"You were observing the chess match?"

The young man sitting before them - quite the archetypal nerd, with his large glasses and odd fashion sense - confirmed this with a shaky smile. John and Sherlock were conducting their interviews at Scotland Yard. "Anything noteworthy you saw?" Sherlock prompted.

"Er, her opening was quite irregular," he said.

John and Sherlock struggled to contain their smirks. "Anything suggestive of illness," Sherlock explained.

The chess player gazed pensively into the middle distance. "Oh, well, I suppose my stomach was hurting at the time."

John cleared his throat. "No, we mean...suggestive of her being ill. Bridget Lee, that is." _How could someone so bloody thick-skulled be so proficient at chess?_ he wondered.

"She took awhile to move the pieces," the player recalled. "Someone else said they saw her hands twitching, so that's probably why. And she kept asking to have her glass of water refilled."

"The twitching sounds like a seizure," John whispered to Sherlock. But the detective shook his head.

"No, all the symptoms accord with severe poisoning," he whispered back.

After this, the interviewee seemingly had no more to say. Sherlock watched him in silence for awhile. Finally he asked, "You weren't competing in the tournament, were you?"

"Oh, of course not!" the young man mumbled, his flushed cheeks taking on a fresh meaning. "I write a blog about competitive chess, but I'd never try to play it."

"Did you see anything or anyone you don't usually see?" Sherlock asked. "You make a hobby out of observing your environment, after all."

"Like I was saying, Bridget opened with the Danish gambit - " John and Sherlock sighed collectively. "-which is a rare move. Not to mention very aggressive, which I've heard is unlike her playing style."

John quickly perked up. "Sounds like a behavior change," he whispered. "Bridget suffered from absence seizures, not any sort of epilepsy that would cause aggression. Poisoning's sounding more likely." Sherlock, of course, was bounds ahead of him.

"She was drinking from a paper cup?" he asked.

The young man nodded. "Styrofoam."

"You sound like a very conscientious young man," Sherlock said. "Will you help us search the trash?"


	8. Middle Game

**Middle Game**

Their stint of dumpster-diving had done no good - other than humiliating the nerd, of course (Sherlock had found he had a faint sadistic streak). Out of the many Styrofoam cups salvaged, the lab had found one with traces of Bridget's saliva, but it held only water droplets. No unmetabolized poison.

Sherlock's next tactic was to examine the possibility of a seizure. Common triggers included stress, exhaustion, and flickering lights… all of which made sense in the context of the tournament.

There would have been flashing cameras, stress practically oozing from the walls, and hours of sleep foregone. But how could Moriarty have ensured that Bridget would have a seizure? Why not use a more failsafe kind of trigger: a gun's? To convey a certain message?

Sherlock was loafing on the couch at 221B as he pondered this. Sleep kept trying to seduce him, but he wouldn't rest if it meant coming back with nothing tomorrow. And, much as he hated to acknowledge it, he was scared of the dreams. They were incredibly lifelike.

What if Bridget_ had_ been poisoned? Maybe Moriarty had taken Bridget's cup and thrown another in the garbage, one without any poison in it. Or...if the poison had been taken intravenously…

Sherlock jerked back awake from his five seconds of relief. _No, not possible. It would have taken effect too quickly...and for God's sake, why would she have accepted an injection, let alone any kind of poison, from a stranger?_

* * *

Bridget Lee had selected white. She sat down opposite Sherlock, showing no sign of physical distress whatsoever.

Sherlock smiled coolly. "Why'd you pick white?"

"Don't you know anything about chess?" she bit back. "Playing first gives me a higher footing. And the higher the standard of play, the greater the advantage."

Sherlock's eyes traveled down to the Danish gambit in front of him. "Showing aggression before you're even poisoned?" he teased. But Bridget quirked a brow, unfazed.

"No. I'd thought this through well beforehand. Anyway, better hurry - your game clock's ticking." Sherlock half-jumped. He hadn't noticed that the delay period was over. Something had scrambled his sense of time….

He moved his next piece with due speed, but some odd detail kept attracting his attention back to the cup. Finally his tired mind realized. "You've drunk a lot of water. Feeling a bit funny?"

Bridget laughed. "Don't worry," she said after a tensely-wound minute, "I was laughing at your strategy. ...And no," she added, "I'm feeling brilliant at the moment. About to beat you."

Sherlock made a follow-up move, already sensing that he'd chosen a losing path. "But...but that doesn't make sense. The poison must be in liquid form. And considering how much you've drunk…"

A shadow of amazement fell over Sherlock's face, but not because of his realization; rather, the realization itself seemed to have altered the flow of time. The chess match was suddenly unfurling at hyper-speed, Bridget's chest moving in and out at a strenuous rate and pieces hopping every which way.

Before he could even blink, she'd shot to the ground and convulsions had started shaking her prostrate body. But Sherlock could do nothing to help her, or the game for that matter - it was now on permanent hiatus, a fate far worse than losing.

_The game is over!_ he thought in a panic, mere seconds before jolting awake.

* * *

Sherlock was just about to enjoy the tranquility of sleep again when the phone went off. At first he lay in expectation of John answering it, but the sound of three more trills dashed his hopes. The detective rolled onto his other side and snatched the phone off the nightstand.

"Lestrade? This had better be..."

"Rich, I'm worried about the tournament." The voice was a young woman's, hoarse, but Sherlock didn't recognize it.

_Wait..._ "Oh, y-you're the girl from the dream," he stammered. "Bridget Lee?"

She didn't answer him - directly, at least. "No, I've been trying to sleep," she said after a few moments, "but you wouldn't believe how tired I feel. I know, it isn't like the doctor didn't say this would happen...but I still feel cheated. You know?"

"I know that feeling all too well," Sherlock said. "Now, please, I have some questions about your health. You say you've been feeling tired - "

"Foggy, too," Bridget interrupted without faltering. It seemed she couldn't hear Sherlock. "I can't focus as easily as I used to. It's unbearably depressing."

The other end of the line went dead for awhile, giving Sherlock time to process. Slowly it dawned on him that this was taking place in his head, relegating it to a dream or possibly hallucination; very disappointing. Even Sherlock's dreams were rarely logical.

Still, if Bridget represented his subconscious, perhaps he could try questioning her anyway? "I don't know much about you, Bridget, but I know something about your mentality: it isn't like you to give up on your chances. What's your strategy?"

"That's a fantastic idea!" she exclaimed. "Thanks so much, Rich, I should have thought of that sooner."

It took him a second to respond to the tone of her voice. "Wait, wait, don't hang up!" Sherlock yelled. "What did Rich tell you? BRIDGET!" In unison with "-GET" the door to Sherlock's bedroom opened, revealing a baggy-eyed but anxious John. _Dammit, it's a hallucination_, Sherlock thought. He lifted the phone from his ear in order to reassure him.

But Bridget had finally decided to yield up her secrets. "You offered to give me a supplement!" she shouted into the silent room.

"Sherlock, for God's sake, what's happening?" John hissed.

Sherlock blinked slowly. "Erm," he said, "I'm afraid this is a dream."


End file.
